#kiri wincest

[touchstarvedsam]

Thinking about little Sammy making a Valentine's Day card for Dean in kindergarten because the teacher told the class to make one for their parents or someone very important to them to bring home and make them happy. So Sam makes the sweetest little card for Dean and brings it home, all dimples and bright eyes, and gives it to Dean with excitement. Dean, who made a card for their dad the hero, didn't expect to get a card from his little brother and he maybe cries a little about it, gratefully taking the card from Sammy and cherishing it.

Every year they keep up that tradition, Dean makes a card for their dad -- making Sammy sign it too because he knows Sammy's card is all for Dean -- and Sammy makes better and better cards each year.

The cards for John stop when Dean gets to middle school, but the cards for Dean just keep coming every year.

Sammy got picked on and called a girl for drawing a Valentine's card in 7th grade, so he got scared thinking Dean felt the same, that Dean hated it and thought it was girly, and threw that one in the garbage and never made one again. Sam doesn't care about anyone's opinion but Dean's.

So when he comes home for the first time without a Valentine's Day card for Dean, Dean doesn't say anything but he's bummed. He's a sophomore in high school; he shouldn't be upset that his little brother didn't give him a Valentine when he's got hot cheerleaders giving him Valentine's, right? Right.

They get through it. They move on and throughout the years they forget all about Sam's little cards and how much Dean loved them, and they're normal.

Then decades later, Sam's going through Dean's bedroom in the bunker looking for things he wants to take with him and keep. He's got a duffel with a few of Dean's things, Dean's dead guy robe resting on top, but he wants to see if there's anything else before he says goodbye to the bunker forever. He roots around Dean's desk, opening drawers, laughing about dumb little things Dean's kept over the years, when he finds a little worn box in the bottom drawer. He pulls it out and opens it with trepidation.

Inside is 7 years worth of the Valentine's Sammy made for Dean each year, and Sam blinds himself with his tears. That box comes with him when he says his final goodbyes.

[brotherwifesammy]

your commentary as you were reading my fic has me dying 😭😂

Lmao! No but really I LOVED it! It was like you took everything out of my head! I always have these kinks running around my head but I can't write for shit lol

[touchstarvedsam]

Post-Red Meat cuddling, anyone?

Dean spends more time looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye than he spends looking at the road ever since they left the Urgent Care. Sam’s alive. He’s not dead on the floor of a cabin in the middle of the woods. He’s breathing, and whole, and finally gaining color back in his cheeks after the doctor cleaned up his bullet wound and sewed him up properly. Dean can breathe again, but he’s still shaken up. He was so scared when he came back and found Sam on the floor, no heartbeat, chest not rising and falling with every breath, lifeless.

He hated leaving Sam there, but he knew Sam wouldn’t want him to risk the lives of the people they saved just because he died. He knew Sam would never forgive him. But, god, if Sam had given him an ounce of proof that he was alive, a single breath, his pinky twitching, Dean would have stayed. Dean would have carried Sam on his back if he had to. He would have done anything to get Sam to safety. He hates admitting it, even to himself, but he would have left Michelle and Corbin on their own if Sam had given him one single gasp and they said it wouldn’t be worth it to take Sam.

His hands clench on the steering wheel, the leather squeaking in protest. There’s so much he wants to say, he just doesn’t have the words. They’re swimming around in his head and he has no net to catch them, no way to stop their flow so he could pull them out and let them leave his mouth. He wants to say he’s sorry, he wants to beg for forgiveness, but Sam isn’t blaming him and Dean hates that. Sam’s not mad that Dean left him in that cabin and Dean wants him to be.

Dean glances at Sam when he catches him moving out of the corner of his eye. He pulls a watermarked slip of paper out of his pocket and Dean doesn’t have to ask to know it’s a prescription. “Need meds?” he asks, going for nonchalant.

“Yeah, they prescribed me antibiotics to clear any possible infections, and meds for the pain.”

“Anything good?”

“Just, uh, Tylenol with codeine.”

“Man, that’s boring.” He’s trying for lighthearted while he waits for the pain to fade. His heart feels like it’s clenched in someone’s fist, keeping him on a leash with that pain, the feeling of loss cutting so deep he feels like he’s dying. “I’ll stop at the next pharmacy, we’ll get your meds, pick up some greasy diner food, and then kick back at the bunker, huh?”

He almost lost Sam today; he thought he did lose Sam today. And then Sam shows up, worse for wear, but alive, and saves Dean. The kid took down two werewolves after all that blood loss, drove himself to the Urgent Care with blurred vision and extreme pain, and saved Dean’s bacon from a newly turned werewolf. He can’t take much more action after that, not for awhile anyway. He just wants to sit with Sam and make sure the kid stays breathing.

“Sounds good,” Sam says, tucking the prescription paper back into his pocket. The rest of the ride is spent in silence. While Sam’s in the pharmacy dropping off his prescription, Dean’s picking up snacks and beer and whatever he loves that Sam doesn’t so he doesn’t have to share, but he does sneak in the healthy snacks Sam loves. He’ll deny later that he grabbed them on purpose.

They don’t speak when Dean runs into the diner to order their food -- a greasy two patty burger with extra onions and French fries for himself, and the biggest garden salad they’ve got for Sam -- and comes back out to Sam asleep in the passenger seat, slumped down, head resting on the back of the bench seat, tilted toward the driver’s side, where Dean would be. He opens the back door, puts the bag of food on the seat, and then shuts the door as quietly as he can in a car that’s not made with silence in mind.

When he slides back into the driver’s seat, he’s slow and careful not to shake the car too much. He’s caught off guard when he comes face to face with his little brother’s sleeping face. His little brother who he’d thought was dead not twelve hours ago. He closes his eyes to calm his breathing, to keep himself from touching Sam, from brushing the hair back from his face, then lets out a slow breath and settles in the seat and starts the car. He lets Sam sleep the rest of the way back to the bunker. He’d considered getting a hotel room and letting Sam rest there, but he thought Sam would feel safer in the comfort of the bunker. They both would.

Back at the bunker, he gently shakes Sam’s shoulder to wake him. Sam’s groggy, eyes foggy as they open and finally focus on Dean. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean jokes. “C’mon, time to get you out of the tower.”

Tired, but still sassy as ever, Sam mumbles, “That’s Rapunzel,” but climbs out of the Impala on Dean’s side instead of his own. Dean helps him out, a hand on Sam’s forearm to keep him steady. Sam’s like a newborn fawn on his big, skinny legs, shaky like he’s never walked before. “I’m okay,” Sam says, but lets Dean help him anyway. Dean grabs the food from the back and they go inside.

Sam’s still exhausted by the time they finish eating so Dean helps him to his room. “Thanks,” Sam rasps. Dean opens his mouth again to say he’s sorry, to ask for forgiveness, to beg for Sam not to hate him for leaving him. He knows Sam doesn’t, and he knows Sam would never accept an apology, so he keeps his mouth shut. Sam’s big, warm hand lands on Dean’s shoulder, a comfort he doesn’t deserve. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“‘Night, Sammy.”

Sam drops his hand and shuts his door. Dean misses the warmth.

It isn’t until Dean’s lying in the darkness of his room staring at the ceiling that he makes his decision. He gets up and makes his way back to Sam’s room. He knows Sam’s asleep so he doesn’t bother knocking, just opens the door and shuts it quietly after he slips inside. It’s dark in Sam’s room but he knows his way around, and he knows what side Sam’s asleep on, so he climbs in the opposite side, carefully. Sam doesn’t have memory foam like Dean does -- he settled for a regular mattress -- so Dean has to be as gentle and slow as possible. Sam stirs, but doesn’t otherwise react. Once under the covers, Dean scoots closer and closer until he can feel Sam’s warmth under the sheets, and wraps an arm over Sam’s thin waist.

That’s when Sam startles.

“Wha--”

“Shh, Sammy,” Dean shushes him, gently running his palm over Sam’s tense side before squeezing his hip to still him. “I just needed to be close to you.”

“Thought you were gonna put a jacuzzi in here,” Sam mumbles, groggy, and it takes Dean a moment to get it, remembers saying he was going to throw Sam’s stuff away and put in a jacuzzi had Sam been dead.

Ever cool, calm, and collected in front of Sam, he replies, “Yeah, well, you ain’t dead yet so I can’t.”

They both go quiet in the stillness of the night, Dean’s arm snaking forward, palm spread wide as he coasts it over Sam’s trembling abdomen, up his chest, and back down again. Sam shivers but doesn’t complain. “How you feelin’, kiddo?” he whispers into Sam’s hair, nosing at the back of Sam’s neck. A tiny whimper falls from Sammy’s lips and Dean smiles against his hair.

“Tired, De,” Sam whispers, but his body wiggles back just slightly, until his back is just a hair’s breadth away from Dean’s chest. One breath from Dean and they’d touch. He closes his eyes, takes that leap, and breathes. His chest touches Sam’s back and he feels like he’s home. His arm tightens carefully around Sam’s waist and he pulls Sam flush against him, holding him tight but mindful of his stitches. They fall asleep like that, Sam in Dean’s arms, warm and safe, Dean content because his whole world is okay.

[touchstarvedsam]

so like maybe dean didn't even feel time pass in heaven. he spent the whole time driving, listening to classic rock, waiting for sam

but sam

sam spent like 40 years living his life without dean. 40 years is a long fucking time for someone to live without their soulmate in a world where time is a construct, while their soulmate is in a place not measured by time

so when sam finally joins dean in heaven, he's cautious, scared, unsure. because he doesn't know how dean is going to take his sudden presence. he doesn't know how time works in heaven -- not now that it might be different with jack as god -- so he's terrified of dean rejecting him

so he chooses how he wants to look; he chooses the exact outfit he wore when he left stanford to go with dean, because dean's words never left his mind; that dean was afraid sam wouldn't want him

and now sam's afraid of the same exact thing, for the same exact reason

so when dean pulls him into a hug he feels as if the weight of the world has left his shoulders because dean wants him, after all these years dean still wants him

and when dean lets go to walk him to the railing to look out at the view, sam can't help but stand close, absorb dean's warmth that he hasn't felt for nearly half a century

he doesn't want to let dean go again, and this time he doesn't think he will ever have to

and if for the next century sam is a little needy for dean's touch -- a little more touchy feely than he ever was, because living so long without dean's touch was torture -- it's no one's business but his own

[touchstarvedsam]

so i was taking screenshots of 15x20 for a twitter post and forgive me if this has been said before but i haven't seen it said yet so

the moment dean pulls away from the hug, sam draws in this inhale like he can't believe his big brother is standing in front of him again, after decades without him and just

look at sam's face (as dean literally looks him up and down) he can't take his eyes off of dean

this is right after he takes that inhale. he looks like he can barely hold back his tears, but years of "no chick flick moments" crosses his mind and he calms himself down, puts himself back together

he could look at dean forever

then dean turns him by his shoulder to walk him to the railing and sam does this little head shake, like he's shaking the feeling away and letting himself bask in the fact that it's dean that's next to him, that it's dean's hand that is warm on his shoulder, and they're literally going to spend eternity together. he's going to have dean forever

he can look at dean anytime he wants now. there is finally nothing that can tear them apart, nothing that can take them away from each other

it's sam and dean, just like it was always meant to be, and sam can barely believe it.

[touchstarvedsam]

thinking about sam and dean's first year in heaven

they spend it driving down the open road together, windows down, breeze rustling their hair. dean's eyes on sam more than they're on the road, as usual. no one like you by the scorpions playing on the stereo as dean watches sam, thinking nothing could be more perfect.

time passes and they don't even feel it because they're with each other

things in heaven work different than they did before. dean hasn't told sam yet, but he thinks sam figured it out. because they're not reliving their greatest hits on repeat. this isn't a memory; they're not trapped in a constant loop.

they're just two brothers on the road to nowhere

but heaven has ways of knowing what you need, even when you don't know you need it. the long stretch of road becomes trees, a dense forest, and then a cabin. he doesn't know how long they've been driving, or how far away they are from their parents' place, or bobby, or rufus, but he pulls baby to a stop in front of the cabin.

the cabin made especially for them.

they get out of baby, both doors creaking as they're opened. the boys climb out, and then the doors creak again when they're slammed shut simultaneously. they ascend the three wooden steps together, two pairs of boots heavy on the old steps, then dean stops sam with a hand on his shoulder before he can open the door. his baby brother turns those tilted hazel eyes at him, questioning, and he smiles in return.

dean says, "c'mere, kiddo," and hefts sam into his arms bridal style. "it's only appropriate i carry you over the threshold, isn't it?"

when they cross the threshold into their new home, sam whispers, "we're home, dean," and dean replies, "i've been home since the moment you got here, sammy."

[touchstarvedsam]

thinking about dean saying to sam that in almost two years he didn't bother him or ask him for anything

imagine dean sitting outside sam's apartment two years before the series began, watching sam's silhouette in the window, clutching his phone so hard the cheap plastic protests in his grip

he flips open his phone and opens his contacts to sam's name, staring at it like it'll turn into sammy himself if he stares long enough

he hits 'call' but doesn't lift his hand to bring his phone to his ear

two rings later "dean?" comes through the tiny speaker, tinny but unmistakably sam

he hangs up

[touchstarvedsam]

it’s call boy!sam au hours // cw attempted noncon, protective!dean

sam that takes calls from clients and then meets them in the same motel he’s sharing with dean, making sure he gets a room all the way at the other end

he doesn’t kiss -- that’s too personal, too involved -- and he’s never fucked any of them, never let any of them fuck him. he’ll give handjobs, blow jobs, eat women out and make them scream with his pretty mouth, but no one gets fully penetrated. sam won’t do that. he doesn’t even really like sex, not really, but they’re low on money, on the run, and sam needs to get money somehow

except dean can never know

until dean catches him sneaking into a motel room with some nobody john and shutting the door softly behind him. dean watching, waiting, but he doesn’t wait long because he knows what sam is doing. he’s heard sam on the phone, talking in his calm, soothing voice, setting up meetings. at least now he knows what those “meetings” are

it makes sense why sam can suddenly get dean an extra slice of pie or a replacement flannel when his gets torn to shreds during a hunt, and dean has never hated anything more

he breaks into the room without thinking. what he sees sets his teeth on edge, red framing his vision. sam is on the bed on his knees. his arms pinned uncomfortably under him, shoulders pressed heavily into the mattress as sam’s head is held face down by a meaty palm. sam is struggling, voice muffled, as he tries to get the guy to stop and dean springs to action.

he’s across the room and knocking the guy out with the butt of his gun. he pays no mind to the sick sound of bone breaking, just shoulders him off of his little brother and helping sam sit up.

“sammy, what were you thinking?”

sam’s shaken up, trembling, and dean sets his hand on his shoulder absorbing the shocks. he curls his fingers in sam’s shirt and pulls his baby brother against his chest, subconsciously kissing the top of his head. “it’s okay, kiddo, i got you.” he pets sam’s hair to calm him, slowly pulling back but not letting go. “you wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“i was just... trying to make sure we weren’t hard up for money. we can’t always keep up the credit card scams, dean. there’s only so many social security numbers and names we can fake.”

dean’s eyes soften and he smooths sam’s hair from where it frames his face. “that why you been gettin’ me extra pie and flannels lately, sammy?” he frowns at his baby brother. “i don’t want you doing this to yourself and gettin’ hurt, little brother.” he presses their foreheads together. “today was too close. i can’t have anything happen to you; i don’t know what i would’a done if--”

“okay, dean,” sam whispers, closing his eyes and absorbing the warmth from dean’s forehead to his own. “i’ll stop.” dean presses his lips against sam’s without thinking. sam sinks into it.

[touchstarvedsam]

I can’t stop thinking about the finale.

I love the bridge scene, I really do, but imagine it happening a different way.

I keep thinking about, what if...

Dean drives and drives and drives and keeps on driving, never stopping, until Sam’s heart stops down on Earth. He doesn’t know what makes him stop, but at the same time he does know. He can feel it. Sammy’s coming.

He pulls up on the bridge and sits there, hands on the wheel, head facing forward, eyes on the bridge ahead of him and the road and trees beyond.

Then he feels it. He closes his eyes and smiles, says, “Hey, Sammy,” and turns his head and there Sam is, riding shotgun like he’s always been there, like he’s never left Dean’s side.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, soft, gentle, cautious, almost like he isn’t sure he’s welcome after four decades. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders and slides Sam across the bench seat against his side, and they look forward together, because there’s nothing left behind them.

[touchstarvedsam]

submitted by @samstilinski

Hey I saw your murder!husband wincest tags so what about psycho!Dean that WILL kill anyone who even threatens Sam, and Sam is still compassionate and caring, so he has Dean on a leash because Dean can snap so easily -and Sam is literally the only person who can hold Dean back from snapping everyone and anyone's neck- but there hunters, they meet all kinds of people. And sometimes, when someone deserves it, Sam let's Dean off that leash and let's him self enjoy Dean smiling, saying "so you think you can talk to Sam that way, huh? Think you can even LOOK at him, yeah?" And then they fuck in whoever Dean killeds blood cause Sam really secretly loves his murder brother husband

SAM IS DEAN’S COLETTE

God, I love that idea so much. Dean is this bloodthirsty killer, taking down monsters -- good and bad -- with no remorse whatsoever. He’s not too shy to torture or to brutalize, meanwhile Sam sits by smiling softly, proud of his big brotherhusband.

Dean’s got a vampire tied up in a chair, growling at them, hissing through his teeth that he’s going to tear Sam apart when he gets out of this, because he knows Dean’s weakness. Because by now, most monsters and hunters have heard about the Winchesters through the grapevine; they know that Dean will and has killed for Sam. So they always, always use Sam against Dean, and it makes Dean fucking feral.

They’re the Bonnie and Clyde of monster murder. Married to the game and to each other, in their newlywed stage even after years of this. They’re inseparable.

So when this vampire starts mouthing off about all the dirtynastywrong things he’s going to do to Sam, and where he’s going to stick his teeth and feed, and how he’s going to fuck Sam before he’s done with him, and either kill him or turn him depending on how pretty Sam’s cries are, Dean slices him again with the dead man’s blood-covered knife. The vampire cries out in anguish, body convulsing in the chair. His flesh is burning, smoking, hissing, and Dean pokes the knife in a little deeper and beckons Sam closer, “C’mere, baby boy,” and Sam does.

Sam stands in front of the vampire bound to the chair, Dean behind it -- Dean always stands wherever he has the best view of Sam; he loves watching his baby brotherwife’s face when he makes his kill for Sammy -- and when Sam is close enough, Dean’s hand shoots up and squeezes roughly around the back of Sam’s neck. He tugs Sam forward so Sam’s chest is inches away from the vampire’s face, those lethal fangs elongated and ready to bite, and Sam has to brace himself against the arms of the chair to keep balance, his hands landing on the vampire’s forearms.

Dean crushes his lips against Sam’s at the same time as he plunges the knife into the vampire’s chest, the scream between them ear-piercing but Dean distracts Sam by coaxing his way into Sam’s warm, pink mouth, twisting the knife as he deepens the kiss. Sam moaning so pretty as Dean explores his mouth with his tongue, tasting his precious baby boy. The vampire convulses, his screams dying down, and Dean pulls back, licking his lips and smirking at Sammy’s dazed, flushed face. Sam was always so pretty when he blushed. But Dean doesn’t have time to take Sammy apart just yet; he’s not done torturing this bloodsucker for objectifying his baby brother.

[touchstarvedsam]

thinking about transwoman!sam or always a girl!sam and how badass she would be

how she’d be dean’s tall, lean, and curvy baby sister, wear bootcut jeans that cling to her gorgeous thighs and flare down at her boots. how she’d still wear the flannels and the hoodies and that thick carhartt jacket. maybe this one would be grey instead of dark brown.

all the guns and knives she’d have hidden on her. in her boots, in her jeans, in her jacket.

fem!sam being unapologetically attracted to ruby. who was in a two year long committed relationship with jessica before she went with dean to jericho.

using her powers from ruby’s demon blood to exorcise demons. later on famine calling her a sweet little girl while there’s blood smudged all around her beautiful, plump lips.

how she would fucking hate the name samantha. she’d still be sam, just sam, and sammy occasionally when it’s dean saying it. dean, who’s incredibly smug about being the only one allowed to call her sammy.

she’s badass sam “don’t call me samantha” winchester and if you try to hurt her big brother, you’ll have a bullet in your head faster than you could gasp “winchester” at the sight of her

everyone’s just as afraid of dean’s little sister as they are of sam’s big brother

she’s still got the compassion and those sweet puppy dog eyes, but when you cross her, those sweet hazel eyes could be the very last thing you’ll ever see.

[touchstarvedsam]

Deft hands remove the tacky yellow polo, revealing flawless tanned skin slick with sweat, a moan of “Dean” falling from parted pink lips, kiss swollen.

Dean wakes up with a hiss, sitting up in the motel room bed. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and his chest is heaving from the dream he was having. Nightmare, he tries to correct, but knows that’s not true. He looks down and sees the thin blanket is slightly tented and he growls in frustration, looking over at the clock and pointedly not past it towards Sam.

4:27 AM the digital clock on the nightstand tells him and he resigns himself to another sleepless night. He gets up and heads for the shower just knowing it’s going to be a long day.

The cold water doesn’t help his erection all that much with those visions swimming around in his head, both turning him on and turning his stomach at the same time. He remembers how it felt, Sam under him. He remembers the breathy way his brother -- no, not his brother, a different Sam, though deep down he knows it was still his Sam -- would moan his name.

They woke up like Sandover never happened and, well, to Sam it never did. Sam didn’t have the honor of meeting Zachariah. Sam isn’t tainted with the memories of Dean pushing him down face first onto Dean Smith’s desk and fucking him raw. Though Sam felt it, Dean knows. He saw the way Sam hissed in pain when he first sat up upon waking, the weird limp he walked with, and the careful way he’d lower himself into the passenger seat of the Impala. And he hated himself for not being able to apologize when Sam said, “I think I pulled something, because I- it just hurts.”

Four days later and he still hates himself.

Four days later and he’s still having wet dreams -- memories -- of their coupling, like a teenage boy crushing on his hot teacher. He’s harbored these feelings for Sam for so long and all it took was one meddling winged dickhead and all of it comes crashing down.

He wishes Zachariah took his memories because then he wouldn’t have to remember that getting what he’s wanted all along was just a one time deal. The angels are doing more harm than good and Dean wants them gone.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Sammy pushing his ass back, begging Dean for more. Sees the way Sam’s big, skinny hands grip the opposite side of the desk as Dean pounds into him from behind, hands that aren’t littered with callouses from gun wielding gripping Sam’s lithe hips and bruising him, leaving his mark for days.

Dean almost came in his pants when he saw the bruises on Sam the next morning as Sam got dressed. Luckily for Dean, the motel didn’t have big enough mirrors for Sam to look at his hips after showering or he’d have questions Dean can never answer.

“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” Dean Smith asks, lips centimetres away from Sam Wesson’s. He can feel his breath fanning over his lips as he pants. Sam’s backed against Dean’s desk, partially sitting but still fully clothed, and Dean presses a knee against Sam’s erection. The kid from tech support hisses, his chest arching as he tries to gain friction, but Dean holds still, just keeping pressure. “Are you going to be my good boy, Sam?”

“--ean!”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Smith, please just--”

Trailing a finger over Sam’s flushed cheek, he says, “What did I tell you, Sam? Call me--”

“DEAN!”

Dean startles out of his reverie and looks over at Sam, shocked that he’s remembering in the middle of the day. He blinks at Sam then asks, “What?”

“Dude, I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes. Are you okay?”

Am I okay, he thinks, wishing he could just snap, No because I’m imagining holding you down and fucking you like I did in the alternate world you don’t remember.

“I’m fine, man, just tired. What’d you find?”

Sam seems to visibly relax at the mention of the case they’re working. “So get this...”

~ ! ~

Dean wakes with a start but not with an erection or from a dream. He’s not panting or sweating. What the hell woke him up?

“Please...”

His head turns so fast his neck protests but Sam sounds like he’s in pain and big brother instincts always kick in when Sam’s in pain. “Sammy?” he asks softly.

“Dean... please...”

Dean stops moving to get off the bed, one foot on the floor; he’s frozen, eyes locked on Sam’s sleeping form. Sam’s sweating, his hair matted to his forehead, and his chest is rising and falling at a more rapid pace, panting. His thin fingers grip the blanket pulled up to his chest.

And he just moaned Dean’s name.

“Sam?” he cautions, moving slow. His left foot comes off the bed to meet his right and he stands. The closer to Sam he gets the better he can see him. He’s got his lower lip trapped between his teeth and his whole body seems to be wracked by tremors, but it’s only when he’s standing right above him that he sees it, sees what’s got Sam moaning.

Sam’s hard, and there’s a wet patch growing on the blanket right above the tent and Dean has to take a deep breath to calm himself before he does something stupid. Sam’s a guy, and they’ve been sharing a room for years, it’s not like he’s never seen Sammy have a wet dream before. He just- Sam’s never called out Dean’s name before.

“Oh god, Dean- Dean- I need you, please--”

“Dean, I need you- please!”

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his short hair and messing it up more than the pillow did. “You’re killing me here, kiddo.” If he wasn’t having memory flashes of Sam Wesson writhing under him and saying the exact words his baby brother is moaning in his sleep right now, it wouldn’t be as bad. But god, Dean is yearning.

There’s an unspoken bro code: don’t wake a guy up from a wet dream; it’s just fucking weird. But he can’t listen to Sam moan like this anymore or he’ll do something they will both regret.

He shakes Sam’s shoulder, relishes in the heat radiating off of him, and Sam startles awake with a yelp. His eyes are frantic as he searches for the enemy before landing on Dean, lust blown and wide. Dean licks his lips and lets go of his shoulder, “Hey, hey, you’re okay, Sammy,” he soothes, backing up to sit on the edge of his own bed. “You’re safe. You were just, uh- dreaming.”

Sam still looks panicked, eyes wide and almost scared. He says, voice cracking, “I- we were- oh god. Dean.”

Dean knows exactly what Sam is sputtering about but he plays dumb, asks, “What were you dreaming about?” despite his better judgement.

Sam seems to deflate at that, shoulders sagging as he whispers, “You’d never wanna look at me again.” He fiddles with the blanket. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says and proceeds to get off the bed on the other side, presumably to hide his obvious erection.

It isn’t until he hears the water running that he lies back down. If Sam’s getting his memories of Sandover back in his dreams, Dean is screwed.

~ ! ~

A new development is Sam’s cheeks pinking when Dean gets too close. He teases Sam because that’s what he’s supposed to do as a big brother, but now it seems to be affecting Sam in a completely different way. He’s been woken up from a dead sleep three times now with Sam’s moaning, and every morning he’s rock hard as he watches his little brother come in his sleep pants.

He particularly loves when Sam’s chest arches almost completely off the bed, hair fanned out over the pillow, as he comes with Dean’s name on his tongue. He feigns sleep while Sam gets up to shower at the ass crack of dawn, and Dean rubs one out to Sam’s moans playing over and over in his head.

If this keeps up, he’s not going to be able to hold off any longer.

~ ! ~

“I, uh--” Sam’s got that gorgeous blush on his cheeks again. “I think I’m gonna get a separate room tonight, Dean. I- I’m not feeling well and I don’t think you need to hear me getting sick all night...”

If by getting sick he means moaning Dean’s name all night Sam couldn’t be more wrong.

“Sammy, when have we ever got separate rooms? Even when you had the flu I didn’t leave you. C’mon.” He tugs on Sam’s jacket sleeve and pulls his little brother against his side to make sure he can’t get away. “Just let big brother take care of you. I always know what to do with you, don’t I?”

If possible, Sam’s blush turns a deeper scarlet and Dean smirks when his head is turned away. Oh yeah, he’s still got it.

His dreams stopped right around the time Sam’s started, like a transference, but Dean’s not complaining. He’s enjoying the view of Sammy coming every night to the thought of Dean fucking him on an office desk. If it gets any worse, Sam might seek out real Dean’s attention, and Dean is -- not so patiently -- waiting. He’s not gonna let Sammy go on like this for too much longer. Dean’s dick can’t handle how frequently he’s jerking off.

~ ! ~

This time he’s not awoken by Sammy’s sweet little moans. He’s awoken by the bed dipping behind him and he self-consciously reaches for the knife he’s got under his pillow, until he smells Sam’s sweat and girly shampoo. He relaxes back into the mattress and waits.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, sounding lost.

Not moving, ever the blase big brother, he asks, “Yeah, Sammy?”

“I keep- I keep having these dreams and they- Dean, they feel so real- I don’t know what to think anymore.” He sounds so lost, so broken that Dean rolls half onto his back and looks up at his little brother. “I know this is going to sound gross because we’re brothers and I’m sorry but I- I can’t hold it in anymore, Dean.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s psyching himself up to talk about what Dean already knows about. “I’m having dreams about you. And me. And--”

Without thinking, Dean reaches a hand up and cups Sam’s very warm cheek, startling his baby brother. “I know, kiddo,” he soothes. “I know. I’ve had them, too.”

“You- what?”

“I’m gonna sound like I’m crazy but hear me out, Sam.” He sits up completely so they’re face to face, hand never leaving Sam’s pinkwarm cheek. “They aren’t dreams. They’re memories.”

Sam stares at him blankly a moment then laughs awkwardly, says, “Yeah sure, Dean,” and moves to get up from the bed, but Dean’s hand on his cheek moves to grip the back of Sam’s neck and pulls him in so they’re nose to nose. “Dean--”

“Remember the morning you woke up sore? When you couldn’t sit right for a few days?”

“Yeah, I- no, no way.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he replies, the pet name just rolling off his tongue like he’s said it his whole life. “Yeah.”

“Oh god.”

Dean keeps him grounded by squeezing the back of his neck. “But listen, Sammy, I don’t regret it, and I don’t want you to, either. I think it’s something we could have.” He smiles softly, making sure Sam’s eyes are on his as he starts to lean in. “If it’s something you want, that is.” Sam meets him halfway and they share their first real kiss.

Sam doesn’t go back to his own bed that night.

[touchstarvedsam]

alright alright but HAVE YOU CONSIDERED Sam and dean having a normal day EXCEPT dean is going out of his way to make Sam blush constantly all day by calling him sweet affectionate names

OH

O H

This is going to be the worst and most boring thing I have ever written. Also the most boring day the Winchesters have ever had.

Sam looks up as Dean sets the plate of egg whites and rye toast on the table in front of him. Smiles and says, “Thanks, Dean.”

“Don’t mention it, Sammy,” Dean replies, settling down to dig in to his plate of fried eggs and extra crispy bacon. He watches Sam for a moment, enjoys his happy little smile as he takes his first bite, and they enjoy their meal in silence.

All’s been quiet on the western front, so Dean chose Sam’s birthday to enjoy a peaceful day. He’s planning on spoiling the hell out of the kid today.

~ ! ~

“You done eating, little brother?”

“Oh,” Sam startles, looking up from the large, dusty tome he’s got sitting on the table in front of him. “Yeah, sorry, I was going to get up, this was just so interesting...”

“Don’t sweat it, kiddo,” Dean waves a hand in dismissal, taking Sam’s breakfast plate from the corner of the table. “I’m headin’ to the kitchen anyway. Need anything?”

Sam considers for a moment, then shakes his head, floppy hair moving in front of his face and getting stuck in his eyelashes. Dean has to look away to keep cool. “No, I’m- ‘m okay, Dean, thanks.”

His eyes are back on Sam, surveying his reactions. He hasn’t worked his way to the words he knows will get a reaction out of Sam; he’s taking this experiment slow. He leaves the library to wash their dishes.

~ ! ~

Sam’s curled up in his favorite chair by the stacks when Dean returns. Both feet up on the cushion, bare toes curled, sweat pants rolled up revealing his thin little ankles. He’s got a book in his lap, the spine pressed in between his thighs, one hand keeping the book open while the other is primed to turn to the next page. He’s laser focused, but this time not on research.

“What’re you readin’, sunshine?”

Pretty hazel colored eyes look over Sam’s knees to find Dean and he opens his mouth to say something then stops. Sam seems to shrink into the chair and Dean doesn’t understand how Sam makes himself so small for such a big guy, but he’s impressed nonetheless.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned now.

“Y- I’m good. Uh- Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.”

Dean laughs softly, says, “Aren’t you my cute little nerd?” and watches the color slowly blossom on Sam’s cheeks. He’s pleased by this, proud to finally make it to the realm of nicknames that will affect Sam positively. “Anyway, it’s been a few hours, you hungry? I’ve got grilled cheese with broccoli and chopped peppers, you vegetable loving geek.” He knows Sam isn’t ungrateful, would eat whatever Dean gives him, but Dean also tries to make things that he knows Sam would like. It’s something about the smile that brings out those dimples, he thinks.

“Sure,” Sam says softly, voice cracking, “I could eat.”

“No problem, sugar.”

Sam’s cheeks get impossibly rosier.

~ ! ~

“Here ya go, darlin’,” he says like this particular name is nothing special. Sam draws in a little breath as Dean says it and Dean counts that as a win, loves the way his little brother blushes this time. “For all your vegetable loving needs.” He winks and Sam tilts his head down quickly. Dean smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

~ ! ~

“I was thinkin’,” Dean says, getting Sam’s attention. He’s covered in grease from changing Baby’s oil while he let Sam read his book. “After dinner you wanna watch a movie?”

Sam’s smile is bright and beautiful. He says, “I’d like that, De.”

It’s the nickname that gets him; he hasn’t heard Sam call him ‘De’ in so long. He’s missed it so much. It prompts him to get more daring.

He smiles softly at Sam, replies, “Okay, babe, pick out a movie while I fix us some dinner.” The blush that heats Sam’s face this time gives a new meaning to ‘apples of your cheeks’. He’s smug when he leaves Sam to head to the kitchen.

~ ! ~

Dean’s stirring the rice when Sam walks into the kitchen. “Hey, baby,” he greets, placing the spoon on the holder and putting the lid on the pot. “Do you need somethin’?” Sam’s cheeks are still a pleasant pink, possibly getting pinker with Dean’s newest nickname.

“Did you- did you need any help?” Sam asks, almost shy. It’s a different side of Sam that’s making Dean fall more in love than he was already.

He shakes his head. “I’m good, cherry pie,” he teases, as a nod to Sam’s red cheeks. He blushes impossibly redder and Dean could burst with pride. He peers down to look in the window of the oven. “Roast is almost done. If you wanna grab a couple’a beers--”

“I- I got it,” he stammers, and takes two beers out of the fridge and practically runs from the kitchen, leaving Dean to finish preparing by himself, smug.

~ ! ~

“All right, honey, fresh roast and seasoned rice.”

He places the steaming plate in front of Sam and smiles fondly down at him. Sam still has this little flush on his cheeks that’s so endearing to Dean, keeps a warmth settled in the pit of his stomach. Sam thanks him with a soft little smile, eyes grateful and full of love.

In the middle of their meal, Sam starts, “So, Dean, what--” he stops himself, looking down at his half eaten dinner. “Never mind.”

Dean knows what he wants to ask, but he’s not done yet so he’s glad Sam stopped himself.

The rest of their meal is finished in silence and Sam is the one to clean up their plates, saying he can’t let Dean do all the work, even though it was Dean’s choice to begin with.

“Thanks, sweetie,” he teases, more joking with this one than anything.

~ ! ~

They’re on their way to Dean’s room when he asks, “Did you pick out a movie, sweetheart?” and Sam lets out this tiny little gasp, almost shocked, and stops walking.

“Dean--”

Dean turns, admires Sam’s beautiful bashful face, and says, “C’mon, love, we gotta finish our perfect day.”

Sam nods silently and follows him into Dean’s room. They settle on Dean’s bed, Dean’s arm protectively around Sam’s thin waist, as they start up Ghostbusters ironically. Kissing the side of Sam’s head, Dean says, “Happy Birthday, baby boy,” smiling as he feels the blush against his lips.

[touchstarvedsam]

my fluffy contribution to giving sam a nice, happy, birthday. happy birthday, sam winchester. i love you so much. there’s still two hours until his birthday for me, but uh, i just wanted to write and post this. it’s may 2nd somewhere.

Sam has never cared much about his birthday. It’s never been any different of a day from any other. He wakes up, showers, eats, looks for a hunt, sits around with his brother. Dean always says, “C’mon, Sammy, even you must wanna do something fun!” but he never does, not really.

Now, he’s mostly content sitting in the library of the bunker, reading through tomes of Men of Letters knowledge, reading about monsters long extinct, ancient gods and goddesses defeated, killed, or captured throughout the years the Men of Letters were active. He never wants to be blindsided by something they thought was gone, he’d say, and Dean would just roll his eyes and hand him a beer and sit beside him.

If he’s not hunting, he just wants to relax.

He didn’t notice when Dean got up and left the library, just sees that he’s gone from the chair separated from his by a little table with a lamp. There was no sound of the metal door opening so he knows Dean’s still in the bunker; he doesn’t worry.

It isn’t until Dean comes back with plates steaming with food and two new bottles of beer that Sam realizes he’d been reading the same paragraph over and over for probably about half an hour now, not understanding a word.

“C’mere, kiddo,” Dean says, setting the tray of food down on the big table. Sam marks his page with the tassel hanging off the spine and sets it on the little table as he gets up to meet Dean. They sit in silence, Sam admiring the absolutely delicious looking food - Sam with two plates, one covered in leafy greens and tomatoes with Italian dressing on the side while the other plate has cavatappi pasta and a creamy vodka sauce, heavy on the vodka, that Sam knows Dean made from scratch.

He smiles at his big brother from across the table, says, “Thanks, Dean,” and Dean smiles back and they eat in silence.

They never mention his birthday, but he knows Dean knows. Dean’s never once forgotten.

*

There’s cake.

Dean baked him a cake. He didn’t even know Dean could bake. Usually, a person who bakes can’t cook, and vice versa, but Dean... Dean can do everything apparently.

Decorations on the cake, not so much, but Sam appreciates it nonetheless, embarrassed as he is. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t sing, nor do any friends stop by, which means Sam is safe.

In Dean’s messy, all caps scrawl, the cake reads, in green:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAMMY

They share the cake, it’s moist chocolate filled with cannoli and iced with whipped mousse topping. Sam practically moans when the whole thing melts into his mouth. Dean’s watching him with an unreadable expression on his face, almost hungry. He wipes his mouth and sets his fork down, challenging his brother with his eyes. Dean doesn’t break contact for several moments, then says, “You finished?”

“Yeah, I--”

Dean nods and takes their plates to the kitchen without another word. He doesn’t know what he saw in his brother’s eyes, or why he retreated the way he did, but he’s content. He’s happy Dean is still willing to do big brother things like this, in times like this. It may be quiet for now, Chuck still in the wind, but Dean is always, first and foremost, Sam’s big brother. He doesn’t know how to repay Dean -- and he knows Dean doesn’t want any thanks, knows he would get flustered and change the subject -- so when Dean comes back from the kitchen five minutes later, Sam smiles up at him, big and bright, his little brother smile.

Dean’s breath seems to catch in his throat and he coughs to clear the air.

“So, Sammy,” he starts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s not too late. Wanna watch a movie? Kick it back with me in my room?”

Sam’s quick to nod and jump up from his chair. “I’ll get us a couple beers while you set it up?” he asks, excited like he hasn’t been in so long. Dean agrees and they part to do just that. He heads to his room first to get changed into something more comfortable: sweats and a battered hoodie he stole from Dean years ago. It’s worn and soft from overuse and washes, the color faded. He doesn’t remember the day he stole it, but he remembers that this hoodie helped get him through so much over the years. It was like a security blanket when all he could see was Lucifer; he’d ball it up and use it as a pillow, or cuddle it like a teddy bear.

Back then, when he’d wear it, it was a lot more snug on him. Now, it hangs loose, flowing around his hips, no longer tight on his shoulders or chest. He’s swimming in his big brother’s hoodie and he couldn’t feel more safe and comfortable if he tried. He feels like Dean’s kid brother again, safe and warm in his big brother’s scent, though the hoodie hasn’t been in Dean’s possession for so long it no longer smells like him.

Sam thinks maybe they can fix that today.

He picks the beers up from where he set them down on his nightstand to get changed and then makes his way down the hallway to Dean’s room, socked feet sliding along the floor. He knocks, waits for Dean’s invitation, and enters with a big smile on his face, gives his brother his dimples full force. Sees the way Dean’s mouth parts as if to say something, and then closes again.

“Hey,” he says softly, shuffling into the room and shutting the door. “What movie you got in mind?”

The remote is in Dean’s hand and he nods his head towards the flat screen and Sam looks over as he crosses to Dean’s bed. He narrows his eyes at the animation paused on the screen. No title screen; he must have started it to hide the name of the movie and Sam looks at him suspiciously, says low, “I don’t want to watch anime porn with you, Dean. Don’t you know by now that’s weird?”

“It’s not porn, Sammy, it’s important,” he replies, petulant. Sam sighs and settles into the bed beside Dean. Inwardly, he thinks maybe Dean’s bed will remember him now. “Now settle and watch the movie, kiddo, I think you’re gonna love it.”

He learns the title is Spirited Away, and he spends equal measure laughing as he does crying watching it. It’s touching and beautiful and he can’t believe Dean has hidden this from him for so long. They’re shoulder to shoulder on Dean’s memory foam, ankles crossed with each other, sharing each other’s body heat, their beers long empty with no desire to get more. Soaking up each other’s company, Sam feels the most content he has in a long time.

It’s the best birthday he can remember having.

[touchstarvedsam]

Dean’s hiding something from him.

His touches have been scarce, rare. He doesn’t casually touch Sam’s chest when he walks past him sitting down in the library anymore, doesn’t pat him gently on the hair to smooth his bedhead. He’s been distant, no less concerned than he normally is, but distant. He pulls away when Sam moves to lay a head on his shoulder, when Sam reaches for affection.

Sam’s losing him.

He’s been losing him since Dean came back from Purgatory.

Sam doesn’t know what to do.

“You’re hurting, Sam,” Dean would say. “You’re still healing. We can’t do that anymore.” Sam just hangs his head and lets the that doesn’t mean you can’t touch me hang in the air.

Dean just doesn’t want him anymore.

He lies in bed longer now, not having a real reason to want to get up and go out into the library or the war room. He doesn’t even want to go on runs around the grounds. The bunker is still so shiny and new, and Sam still has so much cataloging to do, but he’s not motivated. He has so many areas he can explore, see what interesting things he can find, but he just wants his brother to look at him. Dean can barely look at him anymore.

He’s hurt, but not in the physical way Dean thinks. Dean is hurting him.

“Sam,” Dean calls from outside his bedroom door. It’s almost two in the afternoon and Sam’s still in bed, in pajamas, Netflix on his TV with the “Are you still there?” glaring at him in the dark of his room. He hasn’t been motivated to click ‘yes’ because he doesn’t even think he’s here anymore. Soon, his TV will shut off from inactivity and he’ll be cascaded in darkness.

He doesn’t care.

“Sammy,” Dean tries again, then the sound of the door handle jiggling. It’s locked, he can’t get in. “Sam, if you don’t open this door I’m gonna kick it down and you’ll have no privacy!”

Begrudgingly, Sam rolls out of bed, plaid pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips, hair a mussed up mess, shirt baggy and wrinkled from hours under the covers. He knows he looks a mess. Opens the door to an angry older brother with a tray of food in his hand. Glass of iced tea and a plate of penne pasta with what smells like garlic sauce, garnished with tiny broccoli florets and parmesan cheese. Sam eyes the plate and then his brother curiously.

Dean clears his throat. “Look, man,” he says awkwardly, still not meeting Sam’s eyes. “You haven’t been out to eat and you need to eat to get better, okay? So just--” he gestures with the tray, “Eat.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

Dean gives him a barely there soft smile when Sam takes the tray and goes to close himself back into his room. When Dean goes to bed he’ll sneak the tray back out into the kitchen and wash it, then sneak back to his room. It’s a good plan.

Dean’s palm on his door keeps it open and Sam braces himself for an argument that he thought would come after he was done eating.

“Are you okay, Sam?”

“What? I’m fine.”

“No, I mean, are you okay?”

Sam’s eyes flash the telltale blue that means Ezekiel is taking over, Sam’s posture which had been slack straightens out and Dean rolls his shoulders, ready.

“Sam is doing better, Dean,” Ezekiel says, monotone as ever. “He is healing nicely inside, but hurting elsewhere. And that is something I cannot heal.”

Dean’s heart sinks. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, you didn’t tell me there was anything else wrong with him, man!” He steps closer to his little brother, wanting to reach out but knowing it would be weird with Zeke inside him. “What’s wrong with my little brother? Is he gonna be okay?”

“It is not a physical ache. Mental, psychological. Emotional. He is hurting in here, Dean,” he says gently, pressing Sam’s right palm to his chest. “And you are the only one that can heal him, I am afraid.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can feel everything that he goes through, I can see all his memories, feel what he is yearning. And he yearns for you.” Sam’s face shows no emotion while Ezekiel has the wheel and it hurts Dean more than he thought it would. “He is burning for your affection, Dean. He feels as if you do not want him anymore. It has slowed the rest of the healing process.

“He hungers yet he does not want to eat. He lacks the desire to get out of bed. You have ceased to touch him and it is tearing him apart.”

Dean takes a step back, shocked. “I don’t- I can’t, Zeke. I can’t touch him, not while you’re- and while I--”

“When I give Sam back control, I sink deep into his mind where I cannot see the surface. His moments with you are with you and him alone, I am not a part of that. I come only when you call, and only when I sense distress.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, says, “But I don’t deserve him. I’ve been lying to him, I let him be possessed... How can I deserve to touch him when what I’m doing is causing him damage?”

“You saved his life, Dean,” Zeke says, conviction in his voice. “Your brother would not be here right now had you not made the hard decision you made.” He takes a small step towards Dean. “In the eyes of Heaven, you two are soulmates. He needs you.”

Dean gets no warning before his brother’s beautiful hazel eyes flash blue again and Sam’s posture changes. He looks confused for a moment before saying, “I told you I’m fine, Dean.”

“Sammy...”

“Look--”

“Mind if I come in, kiddo? Spend a little time with you?”

Sam’s taken aback but he smiles softly nonetheless, the tension in his eyebrows lifting imperceptibly as he steps aside. “I’d like that.” And if Dean chooses to sit on the bed with Sam, shoulder to shoulder, as Sam eats his lunch, no one but the two of them has to know about it. Eventually he’ll talk to Sam about why he’s been the way he is, but for now he has a lot of lost time to make up for. He has to show his brother all the ways he’s important to him, and if that means breaking the no chick flick rule, well... no one has to know.

[touchstarvedsam]

Dean’s memories come back in waves.

I chose the King of Hell over you.

The things he did to Sam, the things he said.

He dreams about killing his baby brother, wrapping his calloused hands around Sam’s throat and squeezing the life out of him like he accused Sam of doing to him.

It’s your very existence that sucked the life out of my life.

He wakes up in a cold sweat on a shout of “No!” as he kills Sam for the hundredth time in his dream. He’s panting, heaving for breath, staring at his bedroom door as if waiting for Sam to come crashing in in a hurry at hearing his big brother’s shout. Sam won’t come. Just like yesterday, like the day before, and the day before that. It’s been a week since he tried to kill his little brother and he feels no less guilt now than he did then.

And what I’m gonna do to you, Sammy... well, that ain’t gonna be mercy either.

Sam brings him breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Leaves the tray at his door with a knock and scurries off before Dean can get out of bed and swing open the door. He’s always seconds too late.

If Sam had a pattern, Dean would follow it. His little brother is smart, calculating. He doesn’t come at the same times every day. If Dean wants to catch him, he’s gotta leave his room for more than just to shower or take a leak.

Sam makes his coffee just the way he likes it, his eggs and bacon and toast all cooked exactly the way he prefers, sometimes grits instead of eggs, but he makes those perfect, too. Lunch brings different sandwiches each day -- Sam must have gone out for cold cuts and roast chicken -- which he serves with a can of Pepsi. Dinner varies daily, but it’s always served with a beer. Sammy knows him up and down, left and right, and Dean tried to kill him.

Dean tried to kill the one person he promised to protect.

Maybe I was just tired of babysitting you.

He chooses this time to wait by his door. It’s about lunch time, so he knows Sam will be coming... soon. He waits patiently and quietly. Focuses, ear almost against the door, for Sam’s footsteps. Sam’s been so quiet but Dean’s determined.

Then he hears it, the tray being placed on the floor. This is his moment.

Before Sam can even knock, Dean swings the door open quickly. Sam is in the process of standing up after placing the tray down. He looks both shocked and terrified, eyes wide in fear. He straightens up and pivots his body in an attempt to bolt, but Dean’s quicker. He’s always had fast reflexes. His palm, clammy from adrenaline, shoots out and grasps Sam’s way too thin wrist. Sam gasps and tenses, closes his eyes tight as if waiting for a blow. Dean feels as if Sam dealt a blow on him instead. His little brother is terrified of him. Dean has failed him.

Or having to yank your lame ass out of the fire since... forever.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. If possible, Sam stiffens even more, mouth in a thin line, shoulders tense. Dean wants to punch himself, remembers tauntingly calling his little brother ‘Sammy’ when he tried killing him a week ago. “Sam,” he remedies. “Sam, come on, talk to me, kiddo.”

Sam lets out the breath he seemed to have been holding and doesn’t exactly relax but some tension seemed to have left with the breath. He opens those beautiful hazel eyes that Dean has missed so much, but still doesn’t look at him.

“I, uh,” Sam tries, throat rusty from disuse, Dean assumes. “I made you roast beef and cheese.”

“Sam...”

“Just... leave the tray when you’re done, like always, okay?”

He won’t look at him or say his name. Dean can’t take it anymore.

Maybe it’s the fact that my mother would still be alive if it weren’t for you.

He yanks at the wrist in his hand. Sam trips forward, just barely missing the tray between them on the floor, and falls forward into Dean’s chest. Sam tries to scramble away, pushing at Dean’s chest with his free hand, but Dean tightens his grip and pulls him the rest of the way into his bedroom. Sam’s eyes are closed again, squeezed tight, and Dean closes the door.

He presses Sam gently into the door, holding him at the shoulders to keep him still, keeping in mind to keep his left hand gentle against Sam’s injured shoulder. For the first time in weeks, he gets a real good look at his little brother, at Sammy. The kid’s lost weight. His shirts that usually cling to his shoulders and chest are loose, too big on Sam now. He can’t remember the last time Sam was this thin, maybe ten years ago when he first picked him up from Stanford. Maybe high school.

Sam’s breathing is shallow, labored, as Dean rakes his eyes up and down his body. He has yet to open his eyes again and Dean hates that almost as much as he hates Sam’s apparent eating disorder.

“You haven’t been eating,” Dean chooses to say.

He watches as Sam’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, says, “I’ve been eating.”

“Yeah?” he asks, unconvinced. “Then why do you look like you haven’t had a bite in weeks?”

“Let me go and eat your lunch,” Sam says instead of an answer, eyes finally opening.

“Nope, not today, kiddo.”

“D--” he cuts himself off before he can say Dean’s name. “Please. Just.”

“I need you to talk to me, Sam. Why haven’t you been taking care of yourself? How did you hurt your shoulder?”

“I couldn’t, not while you were gone, I--” he cuts off again, looking down at the floor between them. “I need time. Please.”

“It’s been a week, Sam. I need you to talk to me. How did you get hurt?”

Sam sighs, says, “Cas and I were following a lead... demons got the drop on us and, well, I took the brunt of it. That’s it. I’m fine.”

He presses gently, not entirely unkindly, against Sam’s injured shoulder and Sam draws in a breath on a hiss, then whimpers when Dean releases the shoulder completely. “Yeah,” he says sarcastically, “You’re totally fine.”

“I just need the sling a few more weeks, then I’ll be fine.”

“Sam, look at me.”

“Please just eat.”

Dean pulls him away from the door to open it, leans down to grab the tray, then closes the door again, locking it this time. “Get on the bed, Sam.” Sam doesn’t move, standing statue still. Dean repeats, “Bed,” rougher. Sam hurries to obey and Dean smiles humorlessly, following his little brother to sit beside him. He sets the tray on the bed. “I’ll eat, Sam,” he says, softer now, “If you share with me.”

Sam shakes his head, long hair flopping side to side. Dean wants to smile at him and tangle his fingers in that hair. He makes fun of it, but he loves it so much, would never ask Sam to get rid of it.

“I won’t take no for an answer, kiddo. You’ve been starving yourself and I need to fix it.”

“I’m not sta--”

He cuts Sam off with a finger on his lips. “It’s okay, Sam,” he whispers, “I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Just let me. Please.” He’s pleading, he knows. It’s unbecoming of him, but also something he really only does when it comes to Sam. He would do anything to fix his baby brother, if only he knew how to fix this. “I’m never going to hurt you again, Sammy.”

For the first time in a long time, Sam doesn’t flinch when Dean says ‘Sammy’. It’s a start.